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    Summary

    “I’m sorry to hear that it has been getting worse, Ilya,” Galina said, a line between her brows. “Do you think something has…triggered your depressive feelings to get worse?”

    Ilya had wondered the same, had tried to track down the exact moment his brain had decided to slowly suffocate him to death, but he had no answer. It was like the question of which came first: the chicken or the egg. He didn’t know which came first; his depression or simply his awareness of it.

    He felt as if he had always had it—he just didn’t recognize it for what it was until he became aware of its name through the Irina Foundation’s work.

    “Isn’t it just genetic?” Ilya asked. “The trigger was my birth, I think.”

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